


Pleasure and Punishment

by Lizziebearfanfiction



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Age Play, Anal Sex, BDSM, Bukkake, Consensual Non-Consent, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Drunk Sex, Exhibitionism, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Face-Fucking, Forced Orgasm, Fucking Machines, Gangbang, Gen, Improvised Sex Toys, M/M, Master/Pet, Master/Slave, Multi, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Orgasm Denial, Public Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Sex, Sex Toys, Sex Toys Under Clothing, Sexual Slavery, Shameless Smut, Shower Sex, Smut, Threesome - F/F/M, Threesome - F/M/M, Vaginal Sex, Voyeurism, Wall Sex, dd/lg
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-09 10:22:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12885816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lizziebearfanfiction/pseuds/Lizziebearfanfiction
Summary: When Hermione is captured by Death Eaters, she expects to be tortured for information and then killed. As it turns out, Voldemort believes that the best punishment for the Golden Trio is Hermione's pleasure.--WARNING: This fic is full of EXPLICIT, shameless, filthy sex of all kinds. Requests are welcome, but I reserve the right to refuse.--It was daggers through her skull. Her skin was on fire. Her eyes rolled back. Darkness threatened to overtake her, and she welcomed it, but he wasn’t through. No, he was searching for something else. Something quieter. Something buried in the depths of her mind. The first time she’d explored herself, the first time she'd shattered and come undone at her own touch.Fantasies, imagined in moments of weakness as her body hurled toward climax, were being scrutinized. Memorized. Dark, shameful thoughts that had left her feeling embarrassed and filthy, but somehow fulfilled and alive. It was torture, but she would not beg. She would not humiliate herself by pleading with him to let her go, to stop...“No, I don't believe you will,” Voldemort chuckled. “In fact, I don’t think you’ll beg for us to stop at all.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to reiterate this to avoid getting flames or accidentally causing one of my amazing, wonderful readers any upset.
> 
> This fic pretty much has no plot. Seriously, none. It's fetish and kink smut. There will be things in these chapters that might be disturbing or triggering, and for that reason, each chapter will be clearly labeled by either their kink or as "Plot" (though I don't anticipate much of the latter). I will include a warning before every chapter. This is something that I hope you will enjoy, and I don't want to cause any mental health problems by springing nonconsensual smut or torture on you. If you don't like spoilers and you don't have any triggers, just skip that warning.
> 
> I am also open to suggestions on kinks/fetishes, pairings, etc. Please don't shame one another for their requests. I will delete any kind of abuse I see in the comments. Kink should be a safe space (and before anyone makes the joke, if your kink is kink shaming, too bad!) and I won't tolerate anything less.
> 
> With all that said, I should probably establish that I am not J.K. Rowling and won't be making any profit from this fic. It's purely for entertainment.

    “Don’t,” she whispered, but it was too late.

    Hermione fought against him, struggled to close her eyes, but she was helpless, and he was relentless. He tore through her memories. His magic burned, suffocated, smothered her shields and attempts to hide behind them. He ripped open her mind. He saw the Horcruxes. She heard herself screaming.

     He didn’t even hesitate.

     It was daggers through her skull. Her skin was on fire. _He didn’t stop!_ She thought wildly. Her eyes rolled back. Darkness threatened to overtake her, and she welcomed it, but he wasn’t through. _Why didn’t he stop?!_ Wasn’t that what he wanted? Didn’t he want to find out what the Order knew, what they planned?

     No, he was searching for something else. Something quieter. Something buried in the depths of her mind. The first time she’d explored herself, the first time she’d shattered and come undone at her own touch.

     _She was alone in her bed. Through the wall, there was moaning. Grunting. The frantic screech of springs and lips and hinges as the lovers drew closer to completion. Something slammed against her wall, slammed again._

_Hermione rolled over in her bed. There was an unfamiliar sensation spreading through her body, centering between her thighs. Curious, she let a hand slide down her body…_

Fantasies, imagined in moments of weakness as her body hurled toward climax, were being scrutinized. Memorized. Dark, shameful thoughts that had left her feeling embarrassed and filthy, but somehow fulfilled and alive. Kinks and fetishes she had never admitted to anyone, not only herself.

     He withdrew. She staggered and collapsed onto her knees. Tears streamed down her face.

     “How interesting,” Voldemort said. The Death Eater behind her wrenched her head back by her hair, forcing her to meet the Dark Lord’s mocking, serpentine gaze. It was torture, but she would not beg. She would not humiliate herself by pleading with him to let her go, to stop...

     “No, I don't believe you will,” Voldemort chuckled. “In fact, I don’t think you’ll beg for us to stop at all.”


	2. Plot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter sets up the premise for the rest of the story, and ends with a Voldemort/Hermione teaser. It's a doozy, so brace yourselves.
> 
> I am not J.K. Rowling, nor do I profit from this fanfiction. 
> 
> Flames will be disregarded entirely.

     Hermione awoke, lying in bed, to beams of sunlight and the faint scent of orchids, without a single scratch on her entire body.

     This came as a shock to her for many reasons: the first being that, for roughly forty-eight consecutive days prior, she had awoken, curled on the floor, to squealing rats; the second being that, for the first time since being thrown into the aforementioned cell, she didn’t smell something like shit and vomit left out in the summer heat; and the third being that the dozens of wounds she had accumulated over the course of her many escape attempts and the immediate consequences had simply ceased to exist. For the first time in over a month, she was comfortable. Comfortable, but somewhat dazed. Airy and relaxed.

     She didn’t trust it at all.

     The young woman scrambled off the bed and lurched to her feet. Despite the apparent healing, confinement had done no favors to her motor skills. She nearly toppled over, catching herself on the mattress.  _Idiot_ , she thought.  _Calm down. Clear your mind._  She moved more slowly now, head turning from side to side as she went for any sign of life or a potential weapon. She backed up until she was firmly in the nearest corner, effectively placing the two doors to the right directly in her line of vision and the bed between herself and anyone who might enter through them. The nearest window was five feet away at most, but there was nothing but clear skies on the other side of the glass.

     _Doesn’t matter_ , she thought. _Could be enchanted like the ones in the Ministry_.

     Hermione glanced down at herself. The only thing she was wearing was a silk, pastel pink bathrobe. It didn’t even have pockets, so anything she found would have to be secured by the tie around her waist or used quickly.

     Now she faced her growing panic. Hermione was wandless, of course, but there had to be something around there that she could use to defend herself.

     There was the stained glass torchiere lamp on the bedside table, but it had dual shades supported by delicate, twisting columns that would undoubtedly prove unwieldy. She took a mental note of it and began to scan again. Wooden rods supported floor-length curtains, which framed the only three windows in the room – all of them located along the wall to her left. Unfortunately, they were far out of reach and too thin to be of any use, even if she did find a way to dislodge them. She took careful note of the size and shape of the windows – arches, roughly six feet tall and four feet wide, with low sills. Unclimbable, she decided. The curtains themselves did offer decent cover, should she need to hide, but there was little else in the room that could be utilized. Unless she wanted to try to hurl furniture at an attacker or shove any in front of the door, she was forced to admit defeat.

     No, not defeat. She might be unarmed, but at the very least, she could search the room for clues regarding where she was. With renewed hope, she launched into a lengthy, thorough investigation of her surroundings.

     The room was, she realized, a breathtaking display of beauty, wealth, and taste. The walls were a soft periwinkle, the floors and vaulted ceiling were white marble. All of the furniture – frames, trims, and sills – was made of chestnut, and glossy with a masterful and well-tended finish. An elegant, queen-sized bed was centered against the rightmost wall. The ivory satin duvet had been dragged halfway off the bed when she’d jumped up. The bedposts rose into graceful arches that nearly touched the ceiling. A canopy of champagne satin was draped artfully along the frame. A sheer, tiered screen of lilac tulle cascaded down where the canopy didn’t, providing an additional layer of cover between the bed and the outside world.

     She made her way back over to the windows. As far as she could tell, the only way to open them would be by magical means. With a grimace, she turned her attention to the curtains, which matched the canopy in both color and design. Upon closer inspection, she realized that all of the fabrics in the room had a beaded trim that was either glass, crystal, or diamond. The stones seemed too heavy to be glass, so one of the latter two seemed like the more likely answer.

     As far as furniture went, there was the bed, the bedside table and lamp, a towering wardrobe, a vanity, a bookcase, and a desk and chair. She looked around. If she were coming in from the door, there would be another door directly to her right. Straight ahead were the windows. The doors were in a small alcove, so a few feet along, it branched off into a wall on the left. Against the right wall, which continued seamlessly across the length of the room, and a little ways past what she assumed was the door to the loo, was the vanity and wardrobe. To the right, along the wall nearest the door, was the desk, the white satin armchair in front of it, and the lofty bookcase.

     Hermione quickly rifled through the all of the drawers in the room, but came up with nothing but a single quill, an inkwell, and a stack of blank parchment. She sorted through the books. There were plenty of fascinating titles – histories, spell tomes, the classics, and even a few Muggle favorites – but nothing of use.

     White, champagne, periwinkle, and lilac seemed to be the theme of her new prison. The Gryffindor took another long, intense look around the room, but saw nothing unusual. Another glance up at the marble ceiling revealed a chandelier, glittering with the same crystalline stones that lined the fabric, and teacup candles surrounded by glass. There appeared to be a vine twining along the design. As she stared, its leaves rustled, and golden buds grew, bloomed, and faded. The pattern repeated again and again. It was almost hypnotizing.

     Hermione shook her head. There was no time for that. Now that she was certain that there were no weapons to be had, she tried the knob of both doors. The first one opened smoothly into a bathroom with the same color scheme as the bedroom, although the walls here were beige stonework. There were two rooms inside. The main room featured a sink, and a marble countertop on chestnut cabinets that spanned most of the left-hand side of the room, with a mirror and medicine cabinet set above it. Straight ahead was a bathtub that was more of a small pool, and next to it, a stonework shower with a bench and a showerhead on both sides. Both fixtures were works of art. To the left stood two doors: one that opened to a linen closet, and one that led to a toilet. Checking the cabinets and shelves in there proved just as fruitless as those out in the bedroom; unless she intended to kill a man with lavender soap, toilet paper, or a plush washcloth, Hermione Granger was shit out of luck.

     Although she knew there wasn’t much of a chance that the other door in the hallway had been left open, she tried it anyway. Locked.

     There was nothing to do now but wait for someone to come and either tell her what was going on, or kill her. It was nice to imagine that whoever walked through that door would be her rescuer, not her captor, but her distinct lack of a wand suggested that there wasn’t much reason to bank on it.

     Around what she assumed was lunchtime, a platter of food and a pitcher of water materialized on her desk. It was real food, not the scraps she’d been eating in the cell. It took everything she had not to scarf it down all at once.

     With food in her system, it was a bit easier to focus. She ran through what she knew again and again.

     The day before yesterday had been the first time in the forty-six days she’d been imprisoned that she’d seen any sign of human life, and of course, it had been Voldemort and his lackeys with whom she’d been blessed. A silent _fuck you_ to the universe was well-deserved. He’d gone through her memories and dismissed the only ones that should have held any importance to him, which led her to believe that he already knew about Harry’s quest to destroy the Horcruxes. That alone was horrifying, but then there was the matter of what he had said to her afterward…

     _“In fact, I don’t think you’ll beg for us to stop at all.”_

     What did he mean? Considering what he’d been doing moments before, there was little room to doubt that he’d been making some kind of sexual innuendo. _But why? Was he just trying to scare me? Rile up the Death Eaters?_ There had been too much cheering and laughter in response. It made absolutely no sense at all. Why would they celebrate the idea of having any kind of contact with her? She was a Muggle-born. All any of them wanted was to torture and kill every last one of her kind. Of course, she knew that they were all twisted, disgusting people, but to be excited about _that_ …

     Hours of speculation did nothing to bring her closer to an answer. If anything, she felt further from one than ever.

     Anger, anxiety, desperation, and, more than anything else, exhaustion overwhelmed her. She let her face fall into her hands, struggling to hold back tears. For the first time in her life, the brightest witch of her age didn’t have a single answer to anything.

\--

     Around nightfall, there was a knock on the door. Hermione, finally resigned to a wait-and-see approach to her situation, had been reading an old book on conjuring spells, and had finally lost herself in the comforting rhythm of Latin words and turning pages. The sudden noise sent her careening straight out of her chair, knocking it over in the process. There was no time to do anything before the door swung open.

     It was Voldemort.

     Hermione stood there, frozen. The only thought she could muster for what felt like an eternity was one of supreme unimportance:

     _Why did he knock?_

He took a step forward. Time resumed. She struggled not to heave as fear sent a tide of nausea through her body. _This is it_ , she thought. _I’m going to be murdered in a lilac room by Lord Voldemort himself. I’ll be buried in this stupid pink robe, if they bury me at all._ It would have been funny, had she not been about to die. Actually, it was still a bit funny. Hermione met his eyes. She felt the magic his mere presence imposed engulfing her, draining her, weighing down on her as though it were intending to drag her into a living grave. And, just like that, Hermione began to laugh.

     It started as a hysterical giggle and quickly escalated. Within seconds, she was doubled over, tears streaming down her face, and shaking with wild, untamed mirth. The only sound in the room was her desperate wheezes and footsteps on marble.

     Voldemort didn’t break stride, to his credit, but his incredulity was tangible. It only served to make her clutch her sides harder. She heard him stop in front of her, felt the pause, sensed the judgement being cast upon her, and still couldn’t control herself. She stood there for at least a minute, laughing in the face of Lord Voldemort himself, before she was able to regain any semblance of composure. When, at last, she stopped gasping for air and straightened up, she found his face inches from hers.

     “Is something funny, Miss Granger?” His voice could have frozen still the flames of a hearth. Frostbite bit at her insides.

     “No,” she said. “It wouldn’t be to you, anyway.”

     How she was managing to speak to him so candidly was beyond her. Maybe it was because her death was moments away. He made a sound not unlike a snort, though whether it was one of amusement or one of frustration, she couldn’t decide. Then, it dawned on her that something about him was different.

     “You have a nose,” she said.

     It wasn’t the brightest observation she’d ever made, and it hung in the air between them for a moment. The young woman didn’t make any effort to redeem herself. She just stared at him, noting the differences.

     It wasn’t only a nose that the Dark Lord had now – it was skin. Real skin, not the alabaster snakeskin he’d been sporting two days ago. Or had he? She’d been so terrified that she hadn’t exactly taken note of his complexion. Either way, it was there. Pale and bloodless, but it was there. Her eyes drifted upwards. He had eyebrows, too and hair. It was short, but not the splotchy peach fuzz one would assume it would be. Actually, it was more of a buzzcut. She frowned and made her way back down. His eyes were still angled, unblinking slits, and they were definitely still red. No changes there. His lips, though, were significantly more defined – at least, they didn’t look quite as much like they were going to split all the way up his face so he could unhinge his jaw and consume a small child whole.

     Of course, she wouldn’t put it past him.

     He was watching her scrutinize him with a lazy smirk and a cocked brow. His breath was cold, and it was whispering across her face. _Voldemort is a centimeter away, and I’m admiring his eyebrows._

The thought snapped her out of her daze, and she jerked away.  _Murderer._ Her thoughts raced. Memories of torture, of the stories that Harry told, of everything she'd seen and faced, flashed through her foggy mind.  _Monster._  A step and a half back, she realized her mistake. It was too late. Hermione’s foot had found precarious purchase on the leg of the chair she’d previously overturned, and her second step had overthrown her balance completely. Another stagger, and her weight pressed down on the clawed chairleg, catching her other foot beneath it. A bone audibly broke. She was falling, white-hot pain radiating from her ankle, no doubt either going to knock her head against the corner of the desk or slam it into the ground.

     Her cheek pressed against fabric. It took the witch a long moment to register her position and the pain shooting up her leg. She had been caught by something and pulled forward, away from her imminent collision with the floor, and her body maneuvered so that her weight was on her uninjured foot. Something strong was securely wrapped around her waist. She caught the scent of mint, and something else that she couldn’t place. It was sort of a rich scent, like holiday spices, but not as warm. It also didn’t matter what it smelled like, because it was Voldemort who was holding her, and Hermione abruptly felt like she might go into cardiac arrest.

     “Foolish girl,” he said from somewhere above her. It took her another second to realize that he was almost two full feet taller than her. She barely made it to his collar bone.

     _Voldemort would be excellent at basketball,_ she thought, because she had no idea what else there was to think.

      She was lifted away from him and into the air. He orchestrated her path with an absent wave of his wand, sending her onto the bed. It wasn’t a gentle landing, but it didn’t jostle her ankle. This whole thing felt like a dream. It had to be. Such a ridiculous room, such ridiculous thoughts, such a ridiculous conversation, and now she was being tended to by the Dark Lord – the man who murdered thousands upon thousands of people without a second thought.

     His face was smooth, vacant of emotion. He flicked his wand again, and she flinched despite herself. The corner of his mouth tugged up into a satisfied smirk as she realized that it wasn’t an Unforgivable Curse, but a conjuration spell.

     A corked bottle appeared on the bed in front of her. Hermione regarded it with suspicion. Was he trying to poison her?

     “What-”

     “For your ankle, child.”

     _Child?_

     “Am I hallucinating? Is any of this real, or did I finally lose it in that dungeon? So far, I’ve found myself in a room that probably cost as much to furnish as my whole house did to build, you’ve grown a nose and then saved me from cracking my head against the floor, and now you’re giving me a healing potion and using endearments. If you’re going to kill me, fine, but I’d like to know that I haven’t lost my mind first.” Adrenaline was a temporary defense against panic and pain. Hermione's hands shook, but she maintained as composed an expression as she could manage.

     Voldemort laughed softly. Somehow, the sound was a mixture of human and snake.

     “And now you’re laughing,” she added as she picked up the bottle and uncorked it. It smelled like it ought to.

     “I won’t deny that you seem to have lost your mind, Miss Granger,” he said. “I can assure you, however, that you are not asleep, and I don’t have any intention of killing you.”

     “The former clause cancels out the latter,” she replied. Her ankle was beginning to throb, but she’d endured much worse. There wasn’t a chance in hell that she was drinking that potion until she knew that it was safe.

 _Does it really matter, though? I’m going to die either way._ The thought was almost comforting in a terrible way. It made everything easier, somehow.

“Perhaps,” he answered. Hermione thought she detected a hint of a smile. “Drink the potion, Miss Granger. If you’ll do me that courtesy, I’ll tell you where you are, why you’re here, and what your future holds.”

     _Well, that’s that, then._

She downed the bottle in a single gulp. Immediately, a burst of agony sent her backwards onto the sheets, writhing and screaming. _It was poison_ , she thought, frantic.

After three more bursts of anguish, she heard another crack, followed by a pop. Warmth slowly crept down her leg, soothing away the pain. Hermione inspected her leg and found that she was now able to move her ankle without any difficult. _It was actually a healing potion._

“There,” she said, sitting up. Her voice wavered as she met his eyes again. Her mind felt sharper than it had before. _Was there something wrong with my head that the potion healed as well?_ It wasn’t unfeasible that she had struck her head at some point in the cell, given the fatigue and hunger. Based on her sudden ability to think clearly, truly clearly, it seemed to be the only explanation.

     Thus, with the return of her common sense came the return of her fear. His eyes were trained on her, and she was reminded of the snake that Draco had summoned to attack Harry in their second year – the way it had coiled up, lashing out. The gravity of her situation finally, at long last, took hold. She began to shake as her dream crashed down around her, leaving her with nothing but the shards of a blissful escape, and the open grave of reality.

     “Y-You said that you would tell me…” Her voice gave out.

     “Lost your roar, Lioness?” Voldemort leaned against the bedpost, his arms crossed over his chest. It was a position she expected of a real human being, not the basilisk before her. His face was so much more expressive now that most of its features had returned. She wondered if all the emotions she’d been seeing were a result of her concussion. Could they be the byproduct of his years where he didn’t have to concern himself with concealing them? If that were the case…

     Her courage returned. _There’s a chink in his armor._

     “No matter,” he continued. Hermione wondered if her own thoughts were written on her face. “I assume you recall our last meeting?”

     “Yes,” she said. Her heart threatened a slow crescendo as Voldemort, now looking more like the Tom Riddle she’d seen in photos and memories, moved so that he was standing in front of her, looking down at her.

     “Miss Granger, I am aware of your friends’ futile attempts to seize my Horcruxes.”

     _No._ That was it. They were doomed.

     “Catching you alone was sheer luck, I will admit, particularly because it was Draco. The boy didn’t have a chance of holding his own against you in a fight-” he gave her a look that might have been approval “-let alone with your entourage always at your side. The Golden Trio, isn’t it?”

     Hermione said nothing. Her heart was slamming against her chest and ribs. Her body felt numb, like she’d leaped into a lake in the middle of winter.

     “So, it was pure luck that he rounded that corner and found you alone, Miss Granger. The universe was in our favor that night.” His voice lowered, and his face darkened with something she couldn’t place. Voldemort reached forward. His hand hovered just over her cheek. The young girl could almost feel it against her skin, but it never came. Instead, a single finger traced from the corner of her eye to her jawline. She couldn’t move. It felt for all the world like someone had shot her with a well-placed _Petrificus._

     “He disarmed you before you saw him, and Lucius arrived in time to render you unconscious. Unfortunately, I had other business to attend to. You stayed in that cell until I returned. During my time away, however, I had plenty of opportunities to consider what I would do to you.”

     He slid his fingernail along her jawbone to her chin. “My first thought, of course, was to torture you for information, but by the time I had returned, I had already discovered everything you could tell me. I could have tortured you anyway, for the sake of morale and in the spirit of entertainment –”

     Hermione could feel her pulse in her teeth. Tremors began to wrack her body. She could tell by the glint in his eye that her mounting horror didn’t go unnoticed.

      “ – but it occurred to me that there were ways to do that while furthering my goals. Your little friends were out and about, causing enough trouble for my followers that it became a pressing necessity to quell them, somehow.”

     The finger trailed up, slower and slower, dragging along her skin, until it alit on her lips. Hermione breathed in through her nose sharply, but she couldn’t engage her body enough to move away. _So this is what they mean when they say ‘frozen by terror’._

“Torturing you wouldn’t be good enough. They’d expect it, and you would hold out for them. No matter how I twisted it, I knew you would find a way to manage a signal of some kind – evidence that you wanted them to continue on with their silly game.”

     “I don’t believe you!” The words came out all at once. It was like drowning in desperation. “You don’t know everything, and I won’t give you what you need to stop them!”

     Voldemort leaned closer. His finger remained on her lips, but he braced himself inches away with a hand on the bed next to her. He was too close. The next words died on her tongue. She couldn’t move. Lights swam through her vision, and a rush of dizziness and nausea tore away any chance she had at keeping a clear head. As she gasped, his finger slipped between her lips. Just the tip. To far to bite, too close to ignore.

     “That’s when it occurred to me, Miss Granger. I had to make you lose your head. I had to shatter your composure, make it impossible for you to so much as think of your precious friends and those sniveling cowards who call themselves an Order. Torture simply wouldn’t do, but there was something else that just might…”

     His finger pushed in further now. Her instinct was to flinch, to bite down as hard as she could, but even through the waves of terror, nausea, and impending unconsciousness, she knew she couldn’t. Hermione forced herself to hold still as his finger touched her tongue, pressed down on her jaw until she opened her mouth. Manipulated her. There was a predatory smile overtaking his face now. His eyes darkened with satisfaction. Sadistic delight. _Sick, disgusting bastard._ He had caught her off guard so easily, and now she was caught securely in the basilisk’s mouth, and now she had no choice but to remain perfectly still and pray that it didn’t bite down.

     “I decided to find out if it would, so I summoned you and searched through your memories. You are a brilliant woman, Miss Granger, but from what I know about brilliant women, I suspected that there would be one thing you hadn’t studied to mastery.”

     She closed her eyes. She knew what was coming.

     “Sex.”

     _Oh, please, no…_

“Pleasure, Miss Granger. Desire. Brilliant women often neglect such simple needs in the pursuit of knowledge, and when desire is neglected, it… twists.”

     She felt his breath on her face, on her jaw, against her ear. His lips brushed her earring as he murmured so quietly that she almost didn’t hear him.

     “Your memories showed me your purity. You brought yourself to completion only once, but it was to a fantasy that most might find… Disturbing. You knew that, didn’t you? You stopped exploring your body after that night. That need has been building for almost two years now, and yet, you never let a man touch you.”

     _Like you are,_ she thought. As if in response, he withdrew his finger. It traced its way back down to her jaw, leaving a trail of her own saliva. She shuddered as he drew patterns on her throat.

     “Did you think it would disappear, _pet_?”

     Another shudder, but this one felt different. Hermione didn’t want to bring herself back into the present enough to acknowledge it, or how her skin felt increasingly raw and sensitive. His fingertip was leaving goosebumps in its wake. She kept her eyes shut. She was only faintly aware that her breathing had become uneven, almost ragged. She tried to distance herself from him, from her body, from everything.

     “Well, I’ve been inside your head, and I’ve seen that it didn’t. You’ve been bottling it up for so long that even a few well-placed touches could send you reeling. Isn’t that right? It was so obvious. You’d set the trap for yourself. I dragged your fantasies out, pulled them apart, and watched each one. I learned your body through your own eyes. I believe that you could withstand the Cruciatus curse long enough to dissuade your friends, but I do not believe for a moment that you could withstand those desires you so desperately repress. Your pleasure will destroy your beloved allies in a way that punishment never could. They will see you at the mercy of their enemies, and they will see you enjoying every moment of it. So, you see, Miss Granger, you’re wrong.”

     His fingers suddenly closed around her throat. Her eyes flew open as she struggled, and she met his scorching crimson gaze. He was right there, so close that his lips brushed hers. His grip on her neck prevented her from moving away, and her attempts to push him away made no difference.

     “You say you didn’t give me what I need to stop them, but you’re mistaken. You gave me _everything_.”

     Just before his lips crashed down onto hers, she heard him say,

     _“And now you’ll give me more.”_


	3. Master/Slave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nonconsent  
> Orgasm denial  
> Forced orgasm  
> Master/Slave  
> Light BDSM
> 
> I do not own Harry Potter, nor do I profit from this fic.

Voldemort didn’t just kiss her with his lips – he kissed her with his magic.

     It enveloped her with the same primal hunger that she felt in his touch. It shattered her shields, her mind, everything, all in a matter of seconds. It was a monstrosity, a horror in its own right, and it was wild. It sought out that faint current of energy running beneath her skin and it consumed it, rabid in its lust. There was electricity dancing across her skin, raging through her veins, heightening every sense and sensation until the pressure of his palm on her throat felt as devastating as would a stroke of his fingers along her breasts. It was ruthless.

     _What do you want from me?_ she screamed into the abyss of his magic, and it answered with another surge, another jolt of pleasure and exhilaration and - _oh fuck -_ the _power_ that was rising and falling within her.

     _Is this how it feels to be him? Is this the power he carries with him?_

No wonder he was arrogant. It was intoxicating. She was drunk with it.

     Hermione was suddenly able to breathe as the hand squeezing her throat and the kiss claiming her lips retreated. She was reeling. What was he doing? She forced herself to focus, to bring the man looming over her into clarity. She could feel movement. A chill. His arm wrapped around her waist, tugging her from the bed with such ease that, minutes before, would have shocked her. Now, she sensed the magic imbuing his every breath, his every movement, and questioned nothing. No words came when he pressed his forehead to hers and reached for the bow at her hips. She only stared at him, panting, coming down from a high she didn’t understand when he pulled away that delicious energy. Her body tingled in ways it hadn’t since that night, so long ago. In only moments, he’d taken her to some kind of edge.

     The smirk on his lips told her that he knew, and he’d done it on purpose. _What does it take to have that kind of control?_

     Pink fabric slid from her body, onto his arms. Her feet hit the ground and a hand gripped her shoulder, spinning her. The robe came free. She fell forward, catching herself on the edge of the bed. His hands came again, this time to her hips, whirling her around before she could say another word, crushing her bare form to his clothed one. His black robes had been cast aside, she realized. Driven by some madness brought on by whatever it was he’d done to her, Hermione pushed her hands up under his tunic, sliding them up from his stomach to his chest. His body was strong, lithe, but slender. Snake-like.

     A basilisk.

     She yanked her hands back. _What the hell am I doing?_ Something was horribly wrong. The anger and disgust she knew she should be feeling was muffled.  _How am I so defenseless? Surely I'm not so... so... wanton!_

     His eyes narrowed. She was so confused. Her body was alive, desperate, needy. She was afraid and confused. This was Voldemort. But he wasn’t. He was between Voldemort and a man. Not a repulsive snake, but a man who was a ghost of beauty. Even though he was a fragment of what he once was, with the body he’d somehow grown, he was... attractive.

     Everything she was rebelled against the thought. She would not be seduced by this man, this abomination, a travesty of a person who sought only to destroy her world. She snapped to her senses yet again and pushed away from him. Voldemort made no effort to stop her. He just watched, tracking her with those terrifying eyes as she put the bed between them. The room was deafening in its stillness. The only hint of life was her shuddering breaths as she fought the urges she’d bottled up for the majority of her life. Whatever he’d done to her with his magic had dragged them to the forefront of her mind.

    “Hermione,” he said. Her head snapped up. His expression was impassive again, unreadable. His magic had disappeared altogether.

 _How are we supposed to defeat this?_ Panic began to set in. _Without Dumbledore, what do we have that can rival this kind of power?_

“Lioness,” he called again. His voice was quiet, but there was an undercurrent of danger that drove her back, back, until she was in the same corner she’d fled to that morning. _A cornered animal. No lioness would ever cower like this._ Maybe that was the point. He was mocking her.

“Stay away from me,” she said.

“Fine,” he said. She didn’t miss the grin that crossed his face, or the glint in his eyes. What was he playing at? What did he know? What was he going to do? There was so much happening, so many sensations, so much she couldn’t control…

     “I won’t touch you again, Lioness, under one condition.”

     “And that is?” There was a glimmer of hope she couldn’t fight back.

     This time, he didn’t make the faintest attempt to hide his smile. She realized much too late that she had played right into his hand.

_“Cum.”_

     The world exploded. Hermione felt a noise tear out of her throat that she’d never made before. Her muscles convulsed. Her entire body thrashed, quivered. All over, she felt that same electricity. A burning on her throat where he’d held her as his magic explored her body.

     _He hexed me_.

     It didn’t matter. The pleasure was no steady rise, no sweet crescendo. It crashed down on her all at once. Her back was arching. Spots danced in front of her eyes as an invisible force struck every last nerve, set them on fire. She screamed again. There was a desperation in her voice. The tension in her stomach released, but she was empty, and it coiled again. She felt herself going mad with need. Her clit was tingling. Her entrance dripped with lust, her body clamping down around something that wasn’t there. Fantasies danced through her mind. She imagined where they had been moments before, what would be happening if she’d only let him continue. Real hands would be caressing her body, satisfying the desperation, the tender nipples and swollen lips and writhing body that demanded that she seek out some relief. She was cumming, but she wasn’t. She was on the brink of a climax that was just out of reach, but in the throes of rapture at a level that made her incomprehensible, too busy writhing to satiate the need tormenting her body, her mind. She felt her lips moving, heard sounds coming from them, but couldn’t make any sense of what she was saying. Between surges of urgent, frenzied writhing, she caught glimpses of his face. There was hunger and delight, lust and triumph, as he marveled at the pathetic, wanton mess he’d reduced her to. His hand was at the bulging length beneath his pants. Another rush came over her immediately. This wouldn’t end until he was ready for it to.

     Finally, she seized control of her lips just long enough to stop her nonsensical babble and scream, “ _Oh gods, please!”_

This caught his interest. She saw another flare of admiration. Slowly, deliberately, as though he knew every step would cause her overwhelming agony, he made his way over to where she thrashed on the floor, clawing at the ground. He stayed just out of reach.

     “I thought you didn’t want me to touch you?”

     There it was again – the unbearable heat pooling between her legs, the toe-curling burst of pleasure, and then the ache that consumed her entire body as she hung right there, on the edge. Hermione heard herself scream against, begging for release. She struggled to control the praises, the begging, the moans and the filthy words pouring out of her mouth.

     “I take it back,” she said the moment the wave passed. “Please, oh god, please, just help me!”

     “Very well,” he chuckled. The sound shot straight to her core. She let out a sob of relief as she realized that the agonizing emptiness would end. “I will touch you, my little lioness, but you must do something for me.”

     “ _Anything!_ ” The scream echoed through the room.

     “Good,” he said. “You will address me as “Master”, Hermione.”

     _No._ It was degrading, humiliating, and in her right mind, Hermione would have sworn at him in ways that would make even him blush.

     Another agonizing tide of need struck her like a blow to the gut. She fought for breath. All it would take to make this end was a single touch. A single touch, and one word.

     “Master!” It came out easily when the next bolt struck. “Master, please!”

     He grinned – truly grinned, not the crooked smirks he’d been giving her. No, this was the look of an emperor, a conqueror who has watched the last man standing against him fall. He looked at her like she was his newfound kingdom.

     “Very well, pet,” he purred. His fingers wrapped around her ankle and yanked her entire body forward, flat onto the ground. The anticipation alone was making her shake. Voldemort seemed unbothered by her cries and sobs and screams. He forced her legs apart and slid a finger up her thigh. Even there, she glistened with arousal. His touch made her face contort and her eyes roll back. She heard him laugh.

     “Oh sweet girl, you _do_ want this, don’t you?”

     “ _Yes!_ Please, Master, please –”

     “Look at me,” he said. It was a command. Her head snapped up so that she could meet his satisfied gaze with her own, wild, frantic one. “Good girl.” She whimpered at his praise, and then moaned when his finger slid further up her thigh, now tracing just inches away. “Tell me you want me.”

     “I want you!”

     “I want you, what?” His finger paused, and somehow, that was even worse than when he wasn’t touching her at all. Her hips rolled and she tried to move her hands to grab at his, but every time she tried, another wave hit, and she was left scrabbling for something to cling to.

     “I want you, Master! Please, I can’t take this anymore!”

     That seemed to be enough for him. His finger dragged up from her thigh to her core and stroked, just once, from her entrance to her clit.

     The effect was instantaneous. Hermione let loose a scream that seemed to come from her very core. Her hips rose, rolled against his hand. Her eyes rolled back. She was the picture of ecstasy. “Thank you,” she sobbed. “Oh gods, thank you!”

     He sat back and waited for the orgasm to cease. Slowly, after an eternity of quivers and aftershocks, Hermione came to her senses.

     “You hexed me, didn’t you?” She barely managed to speak through gasps. The witch lifted her head just enough to see him. 

     “No, no, not a hex,” he said, as though that were meant to reassure her. “More of a mark – a charm, if you will, to ensure your pleasure.”

     “That wasn’t pleasure,” she said. “That was agony.”

     He chuckled. The sound, coupled with the way his eyes narrowed and his smile twisted into a smirk, sent heat rushing back to her core. Her eyes widened slightly.

     “Maybe, Lioness,” he said. “But you seemed to enjoy it. And now, I intend to enjoy you.”

     He climbed onto her, looking down at her as though he intended to devour her. Her body ached from her contortions on the floor. She lifted a hand, hesitant but determined. “Wait!”

     Voldemort’s eyes widened just a centimeter, and his lips nearly parted in surprise. He stared down at her.

     “Wait, Master,” she tried again, tacking on the honorific. It took everything she had not to grit her teeth when she said it.

      There was the grin again. Her cheeks reddened, but she pressed onward. “Can we go to the bed? The floor…”

     “Hurts?” He raised an eyebrow at her. “Don’t you remember putting yourself here, little lioness?”

     “Yes, but…” She saw that her pleas were falling on deaf ears. She already knew that bruises were forming up and down her back. “P-Please? Master?”

     His brow furrowed ever-so-slightly as he considered her request. Hermione squirmed and winced. That seemed to make his mind up. He wrapped an arm around her, pulled her up, and tossed her onto the bed like a ragdoll. She cried out in surprise at the sudden collision, and then again as his body fell over hers in one smooth motion, like a falcon alighting on a branch. He straddled her waist and drank in the sight of her, displayed for his pleasure, beads of sweat still dripping from when he’d had her screaming on the floor. She looked away, unable to bear the judgement in his eyes. Certainly he’d been with beautiful women – women more beautiful than her. She was so…

     His hands smoothed along her stomach. She gasped, then closed her eyes, enjoying it. As he drew closer to her breasts, she felt her body tense. They needed that touch. Her breasts were almost sore in desperation. It occurred to her how disgusting it was that she was craving his touch, but the moment his fingertips danced over her burning flesh, she forgot every last shred of dignity. She arched up like a cat into the hands of her owner, nearly purring in the same way. She let her head loll back against the pillows. It felt so good. He found her nipples and pinched them delicately, as if testing their sensitivity. The pleasure shot straight through her body. Her hips jerked in response. She heard him laugh again.

     “I was right about you,” he murmured. “You’re so responsive. So innocent. I knew that I would be the first to touch you.”

     The only response she could manage was a throaty moan.

     He rolled her nipples, then tugged. She arched and bucked again. He swooped down and caught her lips, but declined all attempts to deepen in. Instead, he just brushed her lips with his, kissed her chastely, all the while massaging her breasts and toying with her nipples in ways that made her beg like some kind of sex-crazed lunatic. He let his mouth follow the line of her jaw, then the fluttering of her pulse.

     All at once, he kissed her neck, then sank his teeth into it. It was just hard enough to hurt, but it was a sensation that sent off fireworks in her core. She thrashed beneath him and began to beg again.

     “What is it you want?” He kissed down her neck to the hollow of her throat, reveling in the way she spasmed just from that. She could sense his arousal and his enjoyment, and it was driving her crazy. Her mind was pleading with her to get ahold of herself, while her body pleaded with him to do so much more, but he wouldn’t. He just sat there on top of her, holding her down, with his cock growing harder and harder in his pants…

     That was it. Quickly, so as not to give him any time to stop her, Hermione reached up and stroked the length of his shaft through his pants.

     Voldemort, for the first time that night, lost control. He threw his head back with a growl of pleasure, causing her to squirm yet again. She fumbled with his belt, all the while trying to keep him distracted, or at least merciful.

     “Please, Master,” she whispered. The throbbing need between her legs was rising again. It was unbearable, bordering on pain. Her clit was tingling. Her body was beginning to shudder. The pleasure, despite the deactivation of the mark, was still rising and falling. “Please, let me – ”

     He made a motion as if to knock her hands away, but instead, her wrists were dragged together and pinned over her head by an invisible force. She gaped at him. Wild with lust, desperation carved into every last inch of her body, and he was going to bind her up? He undid his belt himself and flung it to the side. One button, and then - 

     She tossed her head back as a current of electricity shot through her clit. In the few seconds she was lost to the bliss, he had undressed entirely. She saw his hard, lean body, and then his cock. It was huge, longer than she'd ever expected. She knew the average size, of course, and his throbbing cock, the thick head already dripping on to her belly, was massive. He stroked it absently. She watched, torn between fascination, anticipation, and fear, as it grew even longer. When he settled over her and pressed the tip to her clit, she suddenly ceased to care. She bucked up against him, rubbing her clit against the head. She was close all over again, so easily. He growled at the sensation of her slick pussy grinding against him, drenching his length with her arousal. He reached down and grabbed it, bringing it to her entrance. She looked up at him, barely in control of herself, her eyes wild and her teeth clenched. She rolled her hips. He drew back. She whimpered and tugged at her bindings. All it would take was one smooth stroke, one easy motion of his hips, and he would fill her to the brim, and she would clamp down around him and ride out that desperately needed orgasm while he slammed into her with reckless abandon. They were going to fuck shamelessly. He seemed to share her thoughts as the swollen tip of his length began to push into her. She spread her legs, eager to finally be filled, panting and moaning in anticipation. His body crushed hers, trapping her, and she loved it. She loved this. She wanted to fuck him forever. He pressed forward just another few centimeters. She writhed in absolute bliss.

     Suddenly, he jolted. She shot him a questioning look, but he was gazing off into the distance. A muscle flexed in his jaw as he clenched it.

     “I’ll be back shortly, pet,” he said. “If I get caught up, I’ll ensure that someone comes to take care of you.”

     “No!” She screamed, but he was already gone. She laid there, staring up at the canopy, still trapped to the bed, as the waves began to overcome her again. How long would he be gone? If he didn’t come back, who was going to set her free?

     It would be over an hour before she found out. 

    


	4. Gangbang/Bukkake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gangbang  
> Bukkake  
> Nonconsent  
> Bondage  
> Oral/Anal Sex  
> Forced Orgasm
> 
> \--
> 
> Draco Malfoy/Hermione Granger/Gregory Goyle/Vincent Crabbe
> 
> \--
> 
> I am not J.K. Rowling, and I own nothing. There is no money to be had from this fanfic - my only reward is the wonderful kinksters and smut-lovers reading and commenting.
> 
> Enjoy!

     “Oh, this is brilliant.”

     Hermione stirred. The hushed words whispered through her consciousness, wavering on the edge of her dreamless sleep. The soul-shattering tidal waves of pleasure had ebbed in Voldemort’s absence, allowing her to slip away and nurse her exhausted body. As she was dragged from the comfort of oblivion, the dull ache pulsing through her body returned. She tried to open her eyes. Darkness.

     “Idiot. You’ve woken her up,” another voice hissed.

     “Who cares?” The first voice – male, most definitely – dripped with disdain. “She’s trussed up, and you’ve blinded her. What does it matter if she’s awake?”

     “Do you want the Dark Lord to _Crucio_ you into next week?”

     That voice… She swore that she recognized it. Somewhere… Somewhere not so very long ago… Exhaustion was setting back in. The darkness in front of her eyes was alluring, pulling her back into the sweet escape of slumber.

     “There, she’s going out again. Happy?”

     There was a grunt of agreement, and then silence. It seemed unreal. A dream, maybe. Yes, that was it.

     “Who knew, eh?” Three distinct voices chuckled. Two came from her left. The other from the foot of the bed. “I mean, look at her. I guess those hideous robes and sweaters were looser than we thought. She’s got tits.”

     “And hips,” a new voice, slightly deeper than the rest, added. “Probably an ass, too.”

     “ _Probably_?” The first voice rose in derision. “Everyone’s _probably_ got an ass, moron. What a fucking stupid thing to say.”

     Now she knew who it was. Hermione jolted awake, the fog that had obscured her mind blasted away as if by an icy wind. _Draco Malfoy._ The other voices. _Crabbe. Goyle._

_No!_

     The witch began to struggle. She was still trapped by her wrists, right where Voldemort had left her. The invisible bonds gave only slightly, just enough to relieve her muscles if one position held for too long. Her legs were pinned, too. When had that happened? And she was blind, she couldn’t see them. Her lips moved, but no sound came out. She was blind, mute, and bound. Two senses gone entirely. Her body was exposed for their viewing pleasure. No matter how she twisted and tried to close her legs, hide her pussy from their eyes, she could move nothing but her torso and her hips.

     Draco sighed. “Well, now we’ve done it.” His voice wasn’t that high-pitched whine it’d been for so many years – more of a low tenor, almost baritone when he laughed. “Sorry, Granger – meant to let you sleep through it, but Crabbe says such _stupid_ things. Nothing has changed, has it?”

     It was light, conversational, as if they were catching up over a cup of coffee. She tried to speak again, but only gasps came out. She felt a hand on her thigh. It squeezed, and she flinched.

     “Actually, I take that back. Christ, Mudblood – where did all this come from?” The hand drifted up. It was strong, with elegant fingers. Piano fingers, her mother would say. They caressed her, drew a line down her hipbone, and paused when she shuddered. “You like that?” She shook her head. _No_. He did it again, this time pressing along the bone and down to the junction between her thigh and her feminine core. Her body quivered beneath his touch. “Don’t bother lying,” he said.

     It was still there, she realized – the heat. Dormant while she slept, it began to stir under Malfoy’s thoughtful attentions. Each movement was deliberate and precise, as though he could see the nerves beneath her skin. Was she still wet? Could they see the lingering affects of the orgasm she’d been so cruelly denied?

     She heard ruffling and clicking. Something hit the ground with a clink, followed by another, similar noise. She tensed. Were they going to hurt her?

     “If I’d known you would turn out like this, Granger, I would’ve been nicer.” She could hear the grin in his voice. “Legs for days, handfuls of tits, and a nice, curvy waist. Not to mention that little muff. I like what you’ve done with it.”

     Two different flames – one seething, one simmering – overtook her body. She felt the first redden her face, and the second settle between her thighs. Oh gods, she was getting wet again, and he hadn’t so much as kissed her.

     Draco laughed. “Merlin, that’s all it takes? You like _talking_ , Granger?”

     “ _No_ ,” she yelled soundlessly. If he noticed her attempt, he didn’t comment. The bed dipped under an unseen weight. She prayed to God it was Malfoy – something she never thought she’d be doing. It was the better of three evils. The others would, no doubt, hurt her.

     His gaze burned along her body. Would he just fuck her and leave? What were the other two doing? She started as his knees settled between hers. Two hands gripped her hips, then slid up to the curve of her waist. He squeezed again. “Didn’t get a chance to finish? No, that’s what he said. Too bad, really.” She squirmed. It only seemed to encourage him – he laughed and dragged his hands up to her ribs, just barely beneath her tits. It took every last ounce of control to stop from arching up, displaying the sensitive skin for him in silent pleading. Hermione bit her lip, nearly hard enough to draw blood. She would _not_ allow herself to enjoy _Draco Malfoy._

The Slytherin wasn’t giving her much of a choice. Her body had already been primed for climax, ridden out waves of denial, and was craving respite. It was responding to every deft stroke and rub. Draco’s fingers crept slowly towards the underside of her breasts and cupped them in each palm. She heard him hiss.

     Anxiety overtook the pleasure for a moment. Where were Crabbe and Goyle?

     In answer, she heard fabric falling to the ground. Her sharp, horrified gasp didn’t go unnoticed. Draco’s weight shifted. “Wait your turn, you pathetic oafs. Yes, fine, do that, but wait until I’m finished with her.”

     _Do what?_ She squirmed again. His hands found their prize, and he took one hypersensitive bud between his fingers and pinched.

     Now she was lost. Hermione gave in to his torturous hold, searing with carnal need. Her body rose to his, desperate for contact, for the crushing weight of a body against her own. The man’s animalistic growl tore through her like a lit fuse, sparking a feverish desire from her lips to her quivering clit. He bore down upon her, his movements become more and more indulgent. He skimmed her other nipple with his thumb, and at her muted cry, flicked it. Another quake of her prone form earned a tightened grip; slow movements, pressing, pulling, pushing, encircling with skillful gestures that brought a rising tide of desire with them. Draco Malfoy was bringing her to a delicious, harrowing edge and letting her dangle over it. Were she able to speak, she knew that the words that would pour from her lips would be degrading and humiliating, but she would scream them with every last cell of her being.

     “I’m going to lick that sweet little clit of yours,” Malfoy snarled, “and you’re going to cum. Do you understand, _Mudblood_?” Her hair was in his grip. He wrenched her head back and fell on to her. She was small beneath him. Even without the aid of her eyes, she knew that he had broadened, grown – his cut a powerful form over her, against her. He found her lips and kissed them. It was heartless, uncaring of her own pleasure. He growled against her lips, bit her hard, forced her face further back and thrust his tongue into her mouth. Acting on instinct, the witch’s teeth caught him. He yanked back.

     “Do that again, you little bitch, and you’ll regret it.”

     Her head snapped to the side as he struck her, hard, across her right cheek. Tears rushed to her eyes. It stung. He cuffed her twice more, once on each tit. Her skin flushed. The girl fought her magical bonds, and he hit her again. It was hard, but not hard enough to make her fear for her life. Somehow, Hermione knew he wasn’t angry. He was toying with her.

     It felt incredible.

     “You’re a little whore, aren’t you?” Hermione felt her skin glow scarlet. He was smirking against her neck. “You _like_ being degraded and used. If I’d have known…” He trailed off with a throaty laugh, leaving the helpless witch to imagine exactly what he might have done. The thoughts shot straight to her glistening entrance. "You're going to be one hell of a treat. I wonder if Weasley and Potter know what they're missing."

     Now there was movement all throughout the room. She couldn’t discern, through the haze of desire, where it came from. The thoughts of her friends that he had dredged up were lost in the sudden motion along her body, and all she knew was that Draco's mouth was trailing down her neck and chest and stomach, scalding her with hard bites and ravenous kisses. She felt his breath against her hips. His mouth grazed her thigh. Her soft folds were being spread, held apart. And then…

     Raw, filthy, wicked ecstacy. The wet friction of mouth against tender peak. Feral, writhing, thrashing body. Ravenous rhythm, strokes and flicks, until she was coming undone. His tongue found her innermost folds and sent her spiraling with hungry thrusts. Fingers bruised her thighs, subduing her, merciless in his capture. He traced her clit, stroked hard and slow from her asshole to her entrance, and jerked against it. The sensations were so intense that they almost hurt. Every muscle in her body shook. She was overwhelmed in her entirety. Draco nuzzled her with his nose, then toyed and trailed lazily over the rest of her burning, glistening flesh. He kissed over her thighs again, then returned to her throbbing peak. He grazed his teeth along it. She arched. He purred against her skin, sending lightning along her nerves. Something inside of her spasmed. He grinned and teased her entrance with the very tip of his tongue, spreading her just slightly, then pulled it in and out no more than a centimeter. This was more tormenting than any hex or curse. She couldn't catch her breath, couldn't control her rolling hips. Her nails clawed into her palms. The pain offered no relief. He slapped her outer thigh, bringing her back to her aching core. An arm around her waist lifted her just enough for him to grip her ass and spread it. His mouth drifted down.

      _No!_ Her entire body rejected the humiliation of being prodded there, but he seemed pleased with what he saw and tasted. His tongue caressed her soft, pink hole. It was overwhelmingly sensitive. Then, he dragged his mouth back down and buried his face back between her thighs. Hermione let out an anguished sob as he found her clit once more and circled it. Two fingers rose to brush over it, then drifted down to her ass and teased it.

     There was noise from the two she had forgotten. “ _Fuck_ ,” came the warning. Flesh against flesh. Beating, panting. She realized too late what was about to happen, but there was nothing she could have done to stop it. Hot cum struck her face. Streams of it. Hermione felt the head of a twitching cock press to her open lips. She tossed her head to the side, but lost control of her body and found it thrown back yet again.

     Agonizing pleasure, tearing through her. Nails biting into her skin, raking down her hips. Hurdling to a climax even as she convulsed in revulsion.

     The brutal burst and drip of Crabbe and Goyle’s pricks, coating her face and tits with their seed. Their primal grunts as they squeezed out every last drop on to her with some kind of sick satisfaction.

     A single digit plunging in, curling, and finding her devastating end.

     She was screaming again, screaming in relief and horror and anguish – a cry that soared up an unspoken scale of climactic bliss and struck a raw silver note. It was audible, the first sound she’d been able to make, and it was the one that made her come apart. The bitter taste of sperm in her mouth. She gagged, but another scream forced its way past her lips as Draco carried her, with masterful patience, through her orgasm; lapping up her sweet juices, joining the first finger with a second to bring her to a second wave, an aftershock that brought her to another trembling edge, and sending her over. When the last flood of pleasure had run its course and ebbed, and the tension melted from every inch of her body, she felt him draw back.

     He said something under his breath, and her vision returned in spurts of bright light. Hermione flinched and blinked against the sudden return of her senses. She was met with the canopy above, and then Draco’s stormy eyes devouring the picture of her exhausted, ravished figure. His jaw was clenched. She saw the need etched into his face, and wondered if she’d had that same maddened look when Voldemort had tortured her.

     “Good show, slut,” Crabbe said. He gripped his limp member and slapped it against her face. She gagged and turned away again.

     “That’s enough.” Draco pulled away from her. Did she detect irritation in his voice? His face was smooth and unreadable – a far cry from the emotional boy she’d once known. Crabbe stepped back without protesting and tucked his pathetic prick back into his clothes. Both of them grabbed their belts up from the floor and dressed. The blonde pulled his wand from his pocket, and without acknowledging her, flicked it at her legs. The invisible bindings came undone. She immediately pressed them together and drew them up.

     “We’ll be seeing you,” Goyle sneered.

     “Bugger off, you slimy little shit,” she answered at once. “Take your pathetic excuse for a prick and disappoint someone else.”

     There was silence, then laughter. Goyle’s face contorted with fury. He took a step forward, reaching into his robes for his wand. Hermione forced herself not to show her fear. Would either of them stop him from hexing her? Crabbe fell quiet and averted his eyes. Draco's laughter came to a screeching halt. He shifted slightly, but whether or not he was prepared to defend her was never determined, because at that exact moment, they were interrupted.

     The door slammed open, and a hissing voice said, “ _Touch her, Mr. Goyle, and you will suffer until your ancestors writhe in their graves._ _”_

A laugh, wild with relief, bubbled from her lips. Hermione had never been so happy to see Lord Voldemort.


	5. Plot/DDLG

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Daddy Dom / Little Girl  
> Sex Toys  
> Consensual Nonconsent  
> Light BDSM  
> Aftercare/Care
> 
> Snape/Hermione
> 
> IMPORTANT: Alright, guys. I am so happy with the attention this is receiving; thank you for all of your kind words and support. I need to let you know right now that updates on this and my other fic, Silver Roses, will be a bit scarce for a few weeks. I'm dealing with some health issues, so I don't have a lot of energy to dedicate to these things. Please don't demand updates - I'm doing my best! I love you all. Enjoy!  
> I am not J.K. Rowling, so enjoy my profit-free work!

   Her relief was not long-lived.

  Had Voldemort not spoken, one might have assumed he was entirely unmoved by the situation before him. It was an imposing vision: A dark figure, clad in sweeping, midnight robes, and framed by white marble, loomed above every living being the room. His regal features were relaxed; what could almost be called a smile played at his lips. For a long moment, Hermione almost believed that she had only imagined the words, even as the wave of cold, hideous dread broke against her lungs. Then, she saw his eyes, dark against his ivory skin, and knew at once that the resonating hiss had been a dangerous reality. They were brilliant: they glinted like the shattered remains of scarlet stained glass, set against the flames of a burning church. There was something there, something far more sinister than anger, that brought the Death Eaters to their knees. Were she free, she might have fallen, too. The magic filling the room was suffocating in its rage. It struck something deep inside her, some animalistic part of her that screamed for her to flee at all costs. She twisted and kicked violently. The binds moved with her, but if they had been corporeal, there was little doubt that both of her wrists would have snapped.

     Crab and Goyle were immediately groveling, pleading for forgiveness. Only Draco was quiet. Hermione shrank back, straining her bonds in a desperate attempt to bring herself up against the headboard. She turned her face away and struggled to think of anything but the filth on her skin and the dread filling her lungs. It was like choking on the first breath of winter air. Something tightened around her chest. _This must be how it feels to drown_. Hermione counted each breath, told herself that there was nothing at all making her feel this way, nothing obstructing her throat, but each gasp became more desperate.

     Silence fell. Hermione heard her own ragged breathing. She didn’t dare look to see what had become of the offending wizards.

     “Miss Granger,” a male voice said from beside her. Hermione lurched away, then cried out as the invisible ropes wrenched her back. “Relax, Miss Granger. I’m going to release you from your bindings. I need you to be still. Do you understand?”

     There was something calming in the rise and fall of the voice. Something about it felt familiar, but it was off, just a bit – the level too quiet, maybe, or the edges too soft. The witch forced herself to hold still. There was the soft whisk of a wand through the air, and then her wrists were free. She drew them to her chest and bent her head down, curling up into herself. There were so many emotions all at once – she had gone from defiance to disgust, from disgust to bliss, and from bliss to shame. Finally, she had been afraid. That avenging presence, despite the safety it had brought her, was something akin to witnessing a tornado as it swept away a city. Just a few steps closer, and…

     Something warm and soft fell across her shoulders. Hermione took it between her fingers and pulled it closer on instinct. It was a lilac plush towel. She buried her face in it. The man next to her spoke again.

     “I’m going to lift you up,” he said, and slid one arm around her back, and the other under her knees. Hermione thought about struggling, but exhaustion was taking its toll. There was no use, anyway. She was wandless, and the beautiful room was unescapable. She let her cheek fall against the thick black fabric of his robes.

     She slipped in and out of consciousness, waking fully only when her lungs burned, and she began to cough. Darkness took her once again, until more sensations drew her back to reality.  Cool tile pressed to her back and thighs, sending goosebumps all along her skin. Hot water quickly eased the chills away. Steam built up in the bathroom, and she found that breathing was becoming easier and easier. After a few moments, she opened her eyes.

     Kneeling in front of her bare body, in the elaborate, ornate shower, was Severus Snape.

     Hermione’s mouth opened. She tried to speak, but nothing but air came out. Snape watched the shock and confusion work their way over her features with no more acknowledgement than the slight cock of one dark eyebrow. When the young witch made no attempt to lash out at him or flee, he nodded.

     “Very good,” he said.

     _I didn’t recognize his voice because he’s never said anything nice to me before_ , she thought. The realization would have been funny, if she hadn’t just been subjected to an intense amount of stress, and her body hadn’t been so useless. There was no point in protesting any of this – certainly not the kindness of a fellow human being in her current state. She glanced over him. He looked healthier than when she’d last seen him. The water was running over his hair, so any grease that might’ve existed prior to their shower no longer existed in excess. The only thing that truly startled her once she’d accepted her predicament was his lack of clothing.

     _It’s a shower. Why would he wear anything?_

     She decided against worrying about it, but she couldn’t resist a quick look over him. For his age and occupation, Snape was quite fit. There was the distinct suggestion of formidable muscle in his lean frame. Those long sleeves had kept his wiry arms hidden. That was probably for the best, Hermione decided; there were enough students struggling with an odd attraction to the biggest git at Hogwarts, and revealing any positive aspects would just encourage them. No, he would be doing everyone a service by remaining, by all appearances, a gross, greasy, gangly prick.

    _Speaking of pricks_ … Before she could stop herself, Hermione’s attention had snapped down to Snape’s waist. A fiery blush scalded her face. He was… Impressive. Extremely impressive. She tried to recall what she knew about the potential of the male anatomy. Yes, he was most definitely on the larger end of the spectrum. Right there at the top.

     “Shampoo, Miss Granger.” Snape’s voice drew her eyes back to his face. He seemed amused – an emotion that was quite fetching on him. His harsh features were gentled by it. There was even something handsome about him.

     “R-Right,” she whispered. It was the first word she’d been able to speak to him.

     “Turn around,” he said. She turned and rested sideways on the bench with perfect obedience… Seven years at Hogwarts had programmed her to listen to him, after all. How she’d strived to earn his respect, even a hint of affection, and here he was, shampooing her hair. His strong fingers worked through her curls, untangling and smoothing as they worked up a lather. The sweet scents filled the air, and she let herself relax into his touch. He stiffened for a split second, when her back touched his chest, but then he continued. When her hair was thoroughly soaped, he cupped the back of her neck, stepped to the side, and leaned her into the water. It was a heady surprise when his hand supported the full weight of her upper torso without so much as a quiver.

     The next few minutes passed quietly. Snape offered her a bar of soap, followed by a facial wash. She scrubbed a bit too hard at one point, remembering what had so recently marred her skin, but he caught her wrists and took the cloth from her. Without a word, he began to sweep it over her face, neck, and chest. Their eyes locked. He tilted his head and watched her with his dark, contemplative eyes. She felt her skin go from rose to mauve.

     “Thank you,” she said, when her entire body had been shaved, sugared, oiled, conditioned, and cleansed. Snape had done all of this for her without hesitation, watching her carefully whenever his hands were obligated to stray to sensitive places. Hermione found that she rather enjoyed the masterful application of touches he supplied. She had never felt so good. Her skin was practically glowing. Her hair waterfalled gracefully in testament to the quality of whatever products he’d used on her hair. His unyielding, firm hands had kneaded the tension from her shoulders and back, and rubbed the ache from her thighs.

     He nodded, accepting her gratitude. “Are you ready to return to your bedroom?”

     Hermione hesitated. To her surprise, Snape cupped her cheek and drew her face up so that their eyes would meet. “Everything has been cleaned, and there will be nobody but us for quite some time, Miss Granger. You have nothing to fear.”

     “I’d like to stay a bit longer, then,” she said. Snape sank down onto the bench beside her. She watched him lean back against the wall and close his eyes. This was a side of him she had never imagined, let alone seen any hint of during her time at Hogwarts. _A time I’ll probably never get back._

     “Professor, are you still in contact with-”

      “That,” he said, opening his eyes to give her a long, dangerous look, “is a conversation for another time. Let it suffice to say that you are safe. The Dark Lord has many plans for you, but none of them involve purposeful harm.”

     “Yes, but I still don’t understand why.” She dropped the subject of the Order and her friends, accepting that she wouldn’t make any headway with it, and focused on what she knew he could tell her.

     “Because sending _your friends_ evidence of interrogation and torment isn’t likely to work. It’s no secret that the lot of you are disgustingly self-sacrificing. They aren’t going to act rashly – it’s exactly what they expect. Aside from that, he suspects that you will have some way of communicating some form of encouragement to them.” Snape closed his eyes again. The water streamed over his face and down his body. His hair looked soft and shiny, like the feathers of a raven. It clung to his neck and grazed his shoulders. There was a flush to his skin from the heat. She fought the sudden, irrational urge to touch his face.

     “So he’s sending them…?” She prompted him for more information.

     “Evidence that you’re enjoying your stay. That’s infinitely more likely to get under their skin. It’s not dignified and noble, like enduring torture at the hands of evil. It’s _sinful_ , and so very invasive. Seeing you violated, and watching you take pleasure in it, will cause them to take risks, and lead them here before they’re fully prepared.”

     “And is it working?” Hermione sat up straight. “Are they coming? You have to st-”

     “Enough!” Snape whirled to face her. “I had hoped that your insatiable curiosity would be dulled by the incredible _danger_ that such conversation brings, but clearly, I was wrong.”

     The young woman stared at him, feeling very much like an abashed first year again. “You’re right,” she said. Her voice wavered. “I’m sorry. I’m just…”

     “Scared,” he said. The word was sharp, but it was followed by a sigh. “Of course.” The anger slowly melted from his obsidian eyes. His voice was gentle and understanding, now. “It’s natural, Miss Granger, but you must remember where we are and who we’re dealing with. The Dark Lord did you quite the service by taking his business from the room.”

      Hermione wasn’t immediately certain of how to react. She was comforted, but the endless reminder that it was Snape doing the comforting was throwing her off quite a bit.

     “I… I suppose.” she said. That was just another perplexing thing. Voldemort was kind, then terrifying, and then kind again. _The keystones of an abuser,_ she thought. _Of course, he’s a mass murderer, not a shitty boyfriend._

     “Come here.” Snape extended one arm just past her shoulder. Hermione gaped at him.

     _He’s offering me a hug?_

Well, one doesn’t shirk a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity like this one. She leaned forward, then scooted herself toward him until their sides were pressed together. His arm looped around her back and pulled her against him. Hermione couldn’t resist burying her face into his neck. She felt his body go rigid, then slacken again. The muscle of his shoulder flexed ever-so-slightly. Hermione repressed the shiver that ran down her spine. Acting on a rather questionable impulse, Hermione draped her arms around his neck and pressed closer. He responded immediately by embracing her fully and pulling her onto his lap.

    There was a moment of embarrassment for her as she felt his sizable length twitch beneath her thigh, right before he adjusted her so that it wasn’t quite so obvious. The beautiful witch was still aware of it, but the security with which she was being held to this familiar man’s body, and the way his fingers ran through her hair, and the whisper of his breath against the skin of her neck, was all much more important. It was the most soothing thing she’d experienced in the last couple of years. There was something decidedly safe about being enfolded in Severus Snape’s arms. He rested his chin on her head and caressed her until she was lounging against his body. If she could purr, she would be doing so with enthusiasm.

     “These fantasies of yours, Miss Granger,” Snape said after a while had passed. “What more is there?”

     Hermione was almost flustered, but then she considered her situation and laughed at herself. “Oh, I don’t know which ones are in my future,” she said. “There are lots of things I’m sure I’ve forgotten. One of the bigger ones – though I haven’t a clue who he’d find to do this – is sort of, erm… Well…” She paused. How does one explain age play to their professor?

     “Go on,” Snape said.

     Hermione took a deep breath and blurted it out before she could reconsider. “DD/LG. Daddy dom, little girl. Age play, pet play, that sort of thing.”

     There was no sound but the water running. Hermione felt a white-hot wave of humiliation take its place. _I need to get away from him_ , came the frantic thought. _I don’t want to see his face. He probably thinks that I’m repulsive. I’m sure he’s seconds from throwing me off of him._

“Domination and age play?” His thoughtful tone rammed her train of thought right off the tracks. “What does that entail?”

     “Uhm…” She drew back just enough to meet his gaze. His eyebrow arced, and a smirk tugged at the left corner of his lips. It was almost seductive. Hermione shivered.

     “Go on, Miss Granger. I’m sure I’ve heard much worse.”

     “An affectionate, coddling relationship, much like the dynamic between a father and young daughter, but involving sexual domination in the form of age-appropriate discipline, like spanking or other forms of punishment.” She rattled off the definition as she had read it once, too uncomfortable to paraphrase.

     Snape’s eyes found hers. “Let me see.”

     She gulped. Legilimency? _What if he sees something bad?_

“I’ll go no further than necessary. Let me see.”

     Finally, Hermione nodded. Snape’s consciousness brushed hers. It was foreign – dark, shrouded, but, for all intents and purposes, tender. He pushed past the automatic barriers she raised, and began to search her mind. She struggled to stay still throughout the discomfort. At one point, she physically squirmed, and she felt his cock stiffen slightly.

     “I believe I understand,” Snape said, withdrawing. “That’s quite a fantasy.”

     “Yes, well-”

     “No need to defend yourself,” Snape said. Her angry words died on her tongue. “I can see the appeal.”

     “You can?”

     “Yes,” he said. “You want someone to take care of you. Do you think that you’re alone in that regard? Any young woman in your situation might feel the same.”

     Hermione immediately tried to pull away from him. He kept her locked to his chest. “I don’t want to be taken care of, I’m just sexually frustrated. Let me go!”

     Her professor sneered. He looked much more like the Snape she knew. “I don’t think so. Allow me to complete a thought, Miss Granger, or I’ll have to punish you.”

     Her brain short-circuited. _He… what?_

_Why is that a turn on?_

“There’s nothing wrong with seeking satisfaction.” Snape went on as if he hadn’t just issued an incredibly hot sexual threat. “You’re right to wonder who the Dark Lord will find to fulfill that particular role. Lucius, perhaps, but he isn’t a particularly good father. Or…”

     “Or…?” Hermione searched his face.

     “Or,” Snape said, “you could be my little girl for a day or two, Miss Granger. You’ll be safe with me, and I’m more than capable of satisfying you.”

     “Professor, I think I misheard you. Did you just…?”

     “Someone will be instructed to do it, one way or another.” He brought one hand up to run through her hair. “It might as well be someone you’re more or less familiar with, and who is interested in the same fantasy.”

     “You are?” She couldn’t keep a single bit of the shock she felt from her voice.

     Snape laughed softly. Hermione couldn’t help thinking that it was a rather nice sound. “From the limited information your daydreams have provided me, yes. I am not without desires. Many of mine are far less innocent than yours.”

     _I don’t want to know what that means._

“I just… find that hard to believe,” she said. “You? A Daddy Dom?” She felt her cheeks take on more heat. This was quickly going from embarrassment to a full-blown fever.

     Snape smirked. “Do you consent?”

     _Well…_ She tried to reason through the situation. _It’s most likely between him and Lucius, and I am not prepared for Lucius. Snape is someone that I know and can trust not to hurt me. He didn’t take advantage of me earlier, and he’s been nothing but comforting._ She studied his face. There was a tinge of mirth playing there. _Voldemort has made it clear that these things will be happening to me whether I want them to or not. He’s also proven that hurting me will end in punishment._ She didn’t even want to think about what was happening to them now. Hermione hoped, just a bit, that Draco wasn’t taking the brunt of it all. He hadn’t hurt her. _The issue is, Voldemort’s also making sure that I enjoy everything. He’s proven that he’ll use magic if needed. Maybe…_ This was hard to admit. _Maybe I should just be going along for the ride, instead of tormenting myself. I always give in, anyway._

“Okay,” she said, finally. “Yes. But I want to talk about limits.”

     Snape shifted. She felt his massive cock against her skin again. _Good lord._

“Of course,” he said, seemingly unbothered. “Safe words and such, I presume?”

     “Yes. Let’s just go with the standard ones: Red is stop, yellow is slow down, and green is go.” She looked at him. He nodded in agreement, then gestured for her to continue. “Um… No, er… Nothing that will leave a serious mark or cause prolonged pain. No…” _Merlin, this is hard._ “Fisting. Of any kind. And no non-sexual bodily functions.”

     “Are you opposed to being tied up?”

     She hesitated, considering the question, then shook her head. “No, as long as it doesn’t hurt.”

     “Anal sex?”

     He said it as if he were mentioning the weather, but she let out a little gasp of surprise. “Um… Maybe. I don’t know. Possibly, but… Precautions.”

     “You’ve never done it?”

     “No.”

     His smirk broadened. “It seems that I’m to be your teacher in more than potions, Miss Granger.”

     _Oooh._ She didn’t know how much she liked _that_ until right then. Hermione squirmed a bit and averted her eyes. He chuckled again. “I acknowledge your limitations, my dear. Now, what do you want to be called?”

     She could barely whisper the answer to that one. “Um… Princess? Sweetheart? Baby girl? Anything like that…”

     Snape’s arms tightened around her, keeping her against his chest, and he lowered his lips to her ear. “Very well, Princess… Are you done with the shower for now?”

     “Yes,” she squeaked.

     He gathered her up and stood. A towel flew up from the rack and draped over the counter, where Snape placed her. The water shut off behind them. He took another towel and began to dry her off. His hands smoothed over her skin, only ever grazing her breasts and thighs. When her body was dry, he moved on to her hair. She looked down. He sorted through his discarded robes for a moment, found his wand, and waved it at her. Warmth traveled from her head to her toes. Hermione felt the soft, loose curls of her hair waterfall down her back. _I need to invest in whatever that stuff he used is, if I ever get out of here._

“Come here,” he ordered. Hermione slid off the counter and took his outstretched hand. He wove his fingers through hers and led her from the bathroom. She noted that he had somehow managed to dress himself in clean robes while the drying charm was at work.

     “Sit on the bed, princess,” Snape said. “Let me look at you.”


	6. Return from Hiatus!

Hello, everyone! Quite some time ago, I took a break from my two fics. I had to remove Silver Roses entirely due to constant abuse. Someone even managed to get my personal email and harass me. For that reason and others, including graduating college, getting a new job, and planning a wedding, I took some time for myself.

However, I will now be returning to this fic! I'm hoping you all are still interested in reading.

The next chapter will be out in the next couple of days, possibly tonight. I may also start writing a new, more SFW story.

Sincerely,

Lizzie

 

EDIT: The chapter will actually be coming out later than expected. I apologize for the delay... I just got some exciting news that I will hopefully be able to share with you guys at some point soon!


	7. DD/LG, Orgasm Denial, Threesome

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience. Here's the best I could do with a very limited amount of time - I'm currently looking for an new job, because the old one had me working around the clock, no breaks, with a nightmare boss. I've never been so relieved to be fired for "performance", even though we all knew it was because I finally told her that my medical condition prevented me from only getting a couple hours of sleep without severe repercussions. Imagine being surprised that your exhausted employee ended up in the hospital, and then firing her for it!
> 
> Ugh. Life.
> 
> ABOUT SILVER ROSES:  
> Look, guys... You have no idea how much I appreciate your support with Silver Roses. Seriously. Unfortunately, I absolutely will not be reposting it anywhere. I can't even look at it after everything that happened, lol. 
> 
> Anyway, here we go.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, nor do I profit from this fic.

  Hermione perched on the edge of the mattress, blushing furiously. Her former professor, soon-to-be lover, Severus Snape, was watching her with hungry eyes.

  "Kitten," he purred, sliding one hand up her thigh, "you look like you're ready to take flight at the slightest motion. Relax. Please."

  She forced herself to take a deep breath and focused on her quivering limbs, willing them to be still.  _ Why am I so nervous? I've known this man for almost a decade. Of all the people in this Godsforsaken place, he should make me feel the safest. _

  It wasn't about safety, Hermione realized with a start. She was nervous, genuinely nervous, about having sex with the man in front of her for a very simple reason: she wanted to do a good job, to impress him.  _ Really?  _ That alone was embarrassing.  _ I still want to do well in any assessment of his, I suppose. Old habits die hard _ ... 

     "Hermione?"

    She jolted, realizing that Severus had withdrawn his hand from her leg. His eyes pierced into hers.

       "Hermione, if you're uncomfortable, I-"

    "No!" Heat flooded her ears and face. "No, that's not it. I'm so sorry, I was just thinking about how, erm... How, well... How nervous I am."

    He seemed surprised at first, which was expected, and then (much worse), amused.

       “Oh, darling,” he began, with a quiet laugh and shake of his head. “Oh, baby girl…” 

  Hermione gasped as he took her knees firmly in his hands and, in one swift motion, spread them wide. His right hand relinquished her leg and grasped her hip. Before she could react, she was tugged against him onto the floor, flush with his chest, parted lips assaulted at once by nipping teeth. Helpless beneath the onslaught of pleasure, she melted. His cock was pressed hard between her thighs, growing with every moment. She couldn’t help but grind against him, taking a savage pleasure in his grunts and moans. 

  “Enough.” The low growl was the only warning she was given before she was swept up into his arms and flung onto the bed. Laughter escaped her lips before she could stop herself… She was giddy with the overwhelming sensations and excitement… Enjoying herself completely for the first time.

  “Enough what, Daddy?” She teased, but couldn’t stop herself from hiding her face as the title slipped past her lips.

  “Don’t hide from me,” came the answer. Strong fingers wrapped around her wrists and pulled her hands from her eyes. “I want to see your face when I make you cum.”

       “When you…”

  The sentence died on her tongue as her body came very much alive under his. Feverish kisses and the hint of stubble against her soft stomach, trailing down… Wrists pinned in one of his hands, legs hooked quickly over his shoulders by the other… And a painfully skilled mouth setting the sensitive peak of her clit afire. He traced her with lazy strokes of his tongue, and the world became a series of disjointed moments. Her hips rolling desperately against his mouth, only to be held down by his forearm. His fingers nearly bruising her skin. Teeth nipping, scraping...

  The word escaped her lips without a thought. “ _ Fuck! _ ”

Everything stopped. “What?!” She gasped, struggling to sit up. “What’s wrong?”

        “You cursed.”

“So what?” She demanded. “Why did you-”

  “Good girls,” Severus murmured against the inside of her thigh, “don’t curse.” He let her go and stood up. “Get up and bend over the bed for Daddy.”

  Oh.  _ Oh! _ She was gasping for air as the prospect of a true punishment was presented.  _ Is he going to spank me?  _ Trembling in anticipation, and with a soft whimper of protest, Hermione obeyed, exposing her ass to him and burying her face in the satin duvet. Humiliated, but excited, and then twice as humiliated by that very sense of anticipation.  _ I shouldn’t want this.  _

  A hand stroked her hair, then raveled in the brunette locks and gently pressed her face into the mattress. “Say you’re sorry.”

_ I should feel guilty for doing this. _

“I’m s-sorry.”

       “Good girl,” he said. The approval in his voice was soothing.

_ But I don’t. _

  She whimpered and squirmed. Heat was certainly pooling between her legs. Her mind flashed back to the unrelenting pleasure and denial that had been tormenting her since her arrival. The need for something, anything, to fill her. 

“P-Please, Sev-- I mean, Daddy. Please.”

       “Please what?” She could hear the smirk in his voice. “Please… do this?” 

Suddenly, his fingertips teased her entrance. 

       “Yes!” 

“Hmm. Why should I reward such a naughty little princess?”

       “I apologized!”

“I suppose you did… But did you mean it? Are you sure Daddy shouldn’t spank you just once for good measure?”

     She fought to press against his fingers, to bring them deep into the emptiness between her thighs, but he withdrew and pressed her harder against the bed.

“Tell Daddy why you’re sorry. What did you do that was bad?”

       “I c-cursed! I said a bad word!”

“That’s right.” He let go of her hair and stroked down her spine, then lower, leaving a trail of chills in his wake. “Gods, Hermione. Your ass is so soft… And you’re soaked.”

       “I… I…”

  “I have a thought about her punishment.” A second voice, a smooth drawl that sent a chill through her body, interrupted them. She struggled to pull away, but Severus held her firmly in position. Her increasingly desperate writhing ended at once when the taunting fingertips circled her entrance in slow, torturous circles. Prodding, never deep enough to satisfy the wanton need that had been building since Voldemort first touched her.

       “Oh,  _ oh Gods! _ ”

  “The Gods can’t help you,” Lucius Malfoy assured her, tone pleasant. She heard him approaching. Tried to think. Couldn’t. Aching, desperate heat… Urgent, wild, writhing… Fingertips twitching, bringing her to an edge she was begging to fling herself off of. 

       “Please,” she sobbed, “please, please, please!”

Their conversation was nearly impossible to follow.

       “What are you doing here?”

“The Dark Lord suggested I check in… Perhaps take my own pleasure of her.”

  Frantic for fulfillment, Hermione lurched backwards. Severus’s fingers evaded her, and a hand shoved her torso flat against the bed once more.

  The exchange continued. Those fucking fingers were relentless. They teased her entrance, then her clit. Massaging. Rolling. Pinching. Severus sounded angry then, but the ministrations didn’t end. Lucius responded in cool, certain tones.

  A gentle slap against her dripping quim. She was begging incoherently.

  Then, abruptly, lips against her ear. “What an interesting scene you’re playing out, my dear.”

  Hermione turned her head and tried to focus past the spots dancing in her vision. Glinting silver eyes, high-set cheekbones, regal nose. Chiseled features. The patriarch of the Malfoy family met her gaze with a ravenous, predatory smile. 

“What do you want?” Her mind was so foggy, and the world was spinning.

       “Would you like to have two men pleasure you, Hermione?” 

The witch struggled to think clearly. “I… W-What?”

       “Say yes, darling. Don’t you want to be touched?”

  Of course she did. She was reeling in her need. Every breath was heightening the sensations, dangling her over the edge. Severus had yet to falter in his relentless assault of her prone form, and she was shaking. Tears of frustration and need poured down her cheeks.

  “Imagine, Princess.” The rumble of his voice in her ear was enough to make her moan. “Imagine the pleasure of our hands caressing your skin… two mouths, kissing and biting and sucking… Can you imagine that?”

       Oh, Gods, she could. “But I… But you…”

  “But I what?” His fingers traced her cheek and nose, then drifted to her lips. He pressed his fingertip between them. “Imagine two cocks buried inside of you, my sweet, precious girl. All you have to do…”

    She let him slide his wandering finger into her mouth, unable to stop herself from sucking it. Severus’s free hand gripped her hip and tugged, exposing her further. She felt his lips brushing her tingling clit. 

       “Is say…”

    Lucius leaned forward. The scent of red wine and sandalwood overwhelmed her senses. He withdrew his finger and pressed his lips to the corner of her mouth. 

       “Yes,” she gasped. “Yes. I want you to fuck me.”


End file.
